


Pancakes for Two

by isonlyme



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Dates, Awkward Flirting, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Fluff and Angst, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Headcanon, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Public Display of Affection, Reddie Fluff, Reddie one shot, Richie Tozier is a Tease, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Young Love, add as i go, first date of sorts, potential hand holding, richie's voices are really EXTRA i'm sorry, young losers club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isonlyme/pseuds/isonlyme
Summary: Where Richie takes (forces) Eddie to a diner for some pancakes because the poor boy's never had them before. And maybe a few things occur than just a mutual love for pancakes.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Reddie - Relationship
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	Pancakes for Two

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ!
> 
> Hey everyone!! This is my first fanfiction from the IT fandom, so let me know what you think!! <3 
> 
> Note: (From the book timeline) This is after Bill and Richie go into Georgie’s room and find the photo album; after the movie with Ben and Beverley on Saturday and he takes Eddie to breakfast during that five day ellipses. 
> 
> ALSO: This story would not be possible without the amazing help from @tangerine_sugarhoneysweet! EVERYONE please stop what you're doing and check her stuff out!! It's incredible <3 ~𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡

Eddie Kaspbrak woke to the phone ringing. He would have turned over in bed with a drowsy sigh and ignored the call if not for the half-second his eyes opened to the bright air. It was mid-morning; the realization that he hadn’t flung from bed, shivering with sweat and childish horror at dawn waking fresh from the same nightmare—the regular hour Eddie often woke to, after his _incident_ with the leper on Neibolt in the clown suit—had left him oddly rested and free. But the buzzing of the telephone stationed on the dresser persisted, the handle rattled in the beige receiver as the call continued its fourth toll. 

“Eddie dear! I know you’re keeping that rotary phone in your room! It’s for the _household_ mister!” Mrs. Kaspbrak shrilled from the downstairs kitchen, and upon hearing her voice Eddie’s ears were opened to the sound of spray bottles and vacuuming: her erratic disinfecting routine. Mrs. Kaspbrak normally raged forth on the cleaning warpath in the afternoon, but to Eddie’s dismay she decided to start early due to his three aunts’ _separate_ visits, beginning the following day. 

Eddie swung an arm free from the covers and pulled the phone to his ear.

Immediately the caller piped up in a drawling Southern accent. “‘Bout time, Eds. Keepin’ me a’waitin’ _allll_ day. What’d’ve you been _dooin’_?” 

Eddie held in a laugh with his free hand; Richie Tozier’s “Voices” were often times done in a manner so awful that the humor in it was more so the Voice itself—sounding exactly the same as Richie’s regular way of talking—than the jokes or impersonations.

“Sleeping.” 

“Welp, sleepin’s for the _weeeak_ son, now’s’a time to brace the good ol’ west, git yer gear on’n let’sa git to it-“

“Richie, what are you talking about?” Eddie asked, getting up and attempting to make the bed with one hand. 

He could almost hear the audible clack of Richie’s glasses against the other line as he readjusted them. Even still the Voice continued, in a hurried clip. 

“Ya hungry? Feel like goin’n grabbin some grub?”

“With the guys?” Eddie was having a hard time with the far corner of his bed, wrangling the sheet tight against the mattress in a one-armed brawl. He was only partially paying attention to Richie, and his cheeks flooded with an unwanted blush as he caught the last of his sentence. 

_"Naw_ , jus’ you an’ me, y’see? A nice time’n wit us an’ some pancakes or whatnot,” He changed accents—Eddie knew Richie long enough to tell when he was nervous: the Voices and outbursts overruled any normal conversation, like he couldn’t help himself. _Just the two of us?_ Eddie thought with a shiver of worry and want, two emotions forced to occupy the same space in his heart. Eddie couldn’t picture Richie doing something like this, he always hung out with Bill down at the Barrens. _Never_ with Eddie, whom he always teased and cracked hurtful jokes towards—not the two of them _alone_. 

He diverted the subject, hoping Richie couldn’t hear the breath fighting its way through his throat. “Pancakes are bad for you. Sugar can cause _cancer._ That’s gonna be an entire plate of sugar.” Whether the thought of spending the morning with Richie, or the idea of risking his health sent Eddie scrambling to find his aspirator he wasn’t sure. Sudden air soothed his panicked lungs as he squeezed the trigger. 

“What’re you saying, Eds? You’ve never had ‘em in your _life_?” 

“Of course not! What’s so great about pancakes?” Already Eddie could hear his mother’s condescending tone in his head, see in his mind’s eye the little tilt of her head, her pursed lips, _“Now now Eddie, we don’t want to slather jam on that toast, do we? Sugar makes you fat, sweetie, and fat raises your chance of cancer which makes you sick. And we don’t want that, do we baby? I can’t have you dying on me, Eddie.”_

Richie let out an exhaustive slur that Eddie had a hard time picking up. “You’re cute, Kaspbrak. But how in the holy _heck_ do you survive? What does that whale of a mother _feed_ you? You gots’ta come, youse just _gots_ to. An’ I gots the moneys too, y’see?” 

“Well...if you’re paying, then I’ll go. But no pancakes.” 

Richie snorted and kept at it. “We’ll see, Eds, we’ll see about those flapjacks. Maybe we can take some home for your mother too, if she hasn’t eaten the house by the time we get back,” He said slyly. 

“That’s _enough_ , Trashmouth.” 

“Aha! There ya go, Eddie. Won’t cha lighten up, m’kay sweet cheeks? Meet me out front in, say, thirty?” Richie’s tone was lighthearted, sarcastic, but still made Eddie squeeze his eyes shut—blocking out the endearing name that no matter how long he had known him he could never debunk the hidden meaning of. _Was he only teasing? Or was there something else beneath the surface of his remarks?_ Richie was perplex in an apparent way, with his Voices and stop-and-go personality; but he was too hard for any of the Losers to understand, Eddie included. 

All he could do was nod to himself as Richie chuckled and abruptly hung up, already planning the perfect battle strategy in his mind to go about breakfast. 

* * *

The bike ride to the diner was brief, but to Eddie felt like ages. Ages of stealing glances at Richie, trying to read his face, replaying the last ten minutes in his head. He had showed up at the porch like he said, Eddie caught him—from a quick peek through the living room curtains—staring at the front door with an anxious smile, wearing the same loudly patterned Hawaiian button up over a grey T-shirt. When Eddie opened the door Richie’s eyes lit up behind his coke-bottle glasses and he gave an obnoxious wave. Eddie clutched his aspirator while looking him over for a half-second, taking note of every detail of his brown eyes maximized by the thick lenses, peering at him with a grin. 

“Ya ready for yer date, _pard’ner_?” Richie gestured to his bicycle in the lawn while bending an elbow—as if he suggested Eddie loop his arm around it, like an old Englishman courting a lady by the arm. _He’s only joking_... _trying to get a rise out of me, like he always does,_ he thought. 

Eddie‘s face burned as he shuffled past and shoved his open arm away. “Fine, whatever, Richie.” 

Now, they were nearing the sharp turn into town, but Richie was hardly giving notice of the stop signs. He was having too much fun messing with Eddie. 

“It’ll be a grand ole time, Eddie me boy, a _grand time_ indeed,” Richie mused. 

“Will you _please_ cut that out?”

“Awe, is poor wittle Eds upset ‘cuz he has’ta eat some pancakes, _hmm_?” Richie’s head spun mid-turn to stare at Eddie, extending a hand as if to pinch his cheek, and nearly fell off his bike in the process. The sound of his tires screeched across the pavement as the bike careened back and forth to gain balance. 

“Richie! Stop that! You’re gonna kill yourself!” Eddie shrieked, steering away from his wobbling bike, but the boy only chuckled. 

“Always got my back, huh?” He said in his own voice. Eddie knew something was there, in his normal voice: a sliver of sincerity shining through, like the sun’s warmth finally breaking a sky of dense clouds. His honesty left Eddie scrambling for a reply. _Richie Tozier, the boy who could never keep his mouth shut, the boy with no filter, no off-switch...speaking from the heart._

But the snide comments were back again. His expression shifted from being kind and mellow back to another wild grin, an emotional whiplash. 

“ _Aaaanywhooo-_ let’s park here, m’kay?” They slid off their bikes and guided them by the handles toward the open stretch of parking lot, completely deserted except for a lone truck. 

“My mom’s gonna kill me.” Eddie said on a completely different note. The only acceptable way Eddie was allowed out of the house was by convincing his mother he was in fact not spending the morning eating sugar-packed carbohydrates, but _instead_ heading to the library with Bill and the other Losers. (“Like _anyone’s_ gonna believe that malarkey. You, Eds? At a library? Don’t you have a problem with dust or something?” Richie had howled between exuberant snorts of laughter.)

Richie lolled his head toward him, drooping his shoulders in a: _gimme a break kid,_ gesture. Then he waltzed, _backward_ s to the door and swung it open while still facing him. “What she won’t know won’t hurt her, eh? Now come on, there’s a fat stack of hotcakes with your name on it.” 

Eddie could only smile at Richie’s weird behavior as they entered the diner. Once inside, the boys—mostly Eddie, as he’d never had restaurant food, his mother’s rule—took in the starkness of the place, its aged tile floor and fading lamps gleaming down at them with dust-flecked beams of light with a sort of pity. 

“Geez, maybe we shoulda went to my house. My mom makes some _mean_ pancakes. I know this was _my_ idea, Eds, but woulda just _LOOKIT_ this dump, in _allll_ of Derry and-“ 

Eddie bumped his shoulder so he’d stop, but it did nothing. “Shut it! They can probably hear you.” 

As he spoke a woman appeared from the back of the kitchen, startled by the young customers gaping at a water stain on the ceiling. 

“Well, hello there. Dining in today?”

“Certainly, ma’am. The _foinest_ table, for the _foinest_ of fellows,” Richie told the waitress in his nasally British Voice. 

She blinked at him, confused, before shaking her head slightly and smiling. 

“Of course.” She led them to a booth—Eddie wondered why she showed them to a table at _all_ , no one was there—and set paper menus on the table. 

Richie sat next to Eddie and held up a hand. “Oh, we’ve already decided.” 

“Alrighty, then. What’ll it be?” 

Richie, in the most self-assured voice possible, “ _Pancakes. For two.”_

Eddie did his best to avoid the curious glance the waitress gave them, her look displayed a sort of humorless frown as she turned away, “Of course, I’ll be right on that.” 

Once the waitress was out of earshot Eddie spoke in a furious whisper, “Seriously? What if she spits in our food or something?” 

“Oh hush, Eds. You and your worrying.” He grabbed their two sets of silverware and started drumming them onto various items across the table, humming to some jazz tune. 

He ignored Richie for a moment and stared out the dirty window at the empty road, hoping to steady his mind. But his thoughts began to wander back to the porch on Neibolt, certain details burning behind his eyes. _The stench of mildew and something sour mixed in the decaying leaves pressed damp under his sweaty palms. The leper’s creased forehead flaked with dead, discolored skin. Eddie’s aspirator doing nothing to replenish the breath knocked out of him at the sight of the clown’s half-mouth dripping in dry blood and spit; or the nightmarish silence as it opened its cracked lips, a waft of stink revealing a liver-colored tongue as it rolled down its chin like tape, collecting dirt as it crept closer. Closer._

_Its voice was a croaked whisper. “Here I come, Eddie....”_

“Say, what’re you thinkin’ about?” Richie interrupted, tapping his shoulder once and making Eddie jump. He fumbled for the aspirator sitting faithfully in his lap and inhaled deeply, wishing he could whisk out all the bad memories and replace them with something else. Something whole.

_“Nothing.”_

Richie looked as if he was going to press further, a twinge of concern crossing his face, but decided against it. _What was he going to say?_

“Well, good thing. ‘Cause while you’ve been _daydreaming about your momma,_ look it! ‘Bout time,” Richie declared in yet another Voice, pointing to the waitress carrying out two plates from the back. 

His heart started to pound, but not because of the stacks of syrup-drenched food placed on the table. His heart started to pound at the memory, at the clown’s presence making those roses, once blooming with color and life, shrivel in its wake. All of that sickness seeping into the flowers, into Neibolt Street, covering the entirety of Derry like a plague. A sickness of the mind, an unshakable fear. Illness that had no cure nor escape.

“Aren’t cha gonna have some, Eddie?” Richie said between a mouthful of pancake, pointing his dripping fork at Eddie’s untouched breakfast. A thin sheen of syrup covered Richie’s bottom lip, making Eddie blush. _If only I could just take my finger and wipe it off. Would his lips be soft? No, stop thinking that. Who cares what they feel like._

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so,” Their eyes met—his through the sides of his glasses—and in the stillness broken only by clinking silverware did Richie read the panic in Eddie’s eyes. And he, usually so tactless and playful, reached out a hand and let his fingers touch Eddie’s. Let his hand rest there over his own, under the table, where the waitress could not see. Where no one could see.  


“You alright?” The touch was startling and light. It set Eddie’s stomach on fire when he did not pull away immediately, like he guessed. He played it off—more in his head than in his heart—thinking Richie just felt bad. Playing the role, like it was all some game to him. _Any second now and he’s gonna start making some joke,_ Eddie concluded. 

But he didn’t. Instead his eyes fell to their overlapped hands, almost as if he was surprised by his own actions. Eddie was stunned by the strangeness of it all, like Richie was breaking character—not speaking with the help of his Voices. _Speaking from the heart._

“Sorry, yeah. It’s been a rough week for us all, huh?” Eddie laughed nervously, looking anywhere but at their hands. 

“Well, we’ve got each other, right Eds? All of us do.” 

Eddie felt like the last sentence was added on purpose, a smokescreen, though it was too obvious to see through it to the true meaning; Richie’s voice, his kind brown eyes, his thumb running along Eddie’s knuckle with the most minuscule trace of touch. 

“You mean that, don’t you?” Eddie whispered, realization dawning on how close they become on the booth; realizing the meaning in his words as his body inched closer. _Sure_ , Eddie thought, _the last few weeks were filled with changes—some for the better._ After the killings, the curfew, after the events that showcased each their own personal hell: it all brought them closer, helped Eddie see that he wasn’t alone in the torment. It unified them.

_We’ve got each other._

It comforted him in a way he didn’t understand, so unlike his mother with her love on the brink of being too much. With Richie, this was _different_. His touch eased him, reminding him of a time after Henry’s gang had cornered him and shoved him to the ground, crushing the aspirator in his pocket. Richie and the others were there, but it was only _him_ who had picked him up off the asphalt, dusted his sides, gave him a careful once-over and said: _You okay, Eds?_

_A love on the brink of something..past friends._ It was in Richie’s eyes now, in the diner, both lost in a trance from the others’ stare; the same affectionate brown eyes, still so wary to hold something inside. _What was he going to say? Just spit it out! He can hardly keep his thoughts to himself as it was._

“Listen Eds,” Richie began, his grip on Eddie’s hand tightening as he tried to focus his eyes on the table. His voice jittery, “There’s a real reason I brought you all the way out here.. I don’t really know how to say this. But I think I’ve gotta get it out of me. Funny, huh? I can never shut my goddamn mouth. And here I go, at a loss for words.” _He was so nervous._

“W-what _are_ you trying to say?” His throat was dry as he spoke, and though he was dying for a glass of water, or the sudden relief of his aspirator, he prayed the waitress would stay in the back room. He was dying to hear what he had to say much more. Eddie never pulled away; only waited for the moment Richie could not come any closer, and they would be sharing the same flustered air. 

Although Richie was taller still his face leaned further and moved past what was considered a safe distance. Eddie was frozen in the booth as he watched Richie’s face flush and quickly lick his dry lips before he spoke. _His lips so close. Wait, stop staring at his lip_ s.

“ _I think_ ,” His glasses reflected Eddie’s own awed face while his voice dropped down to a hushed murmur, “ _I might just like-_ “

A banging upon glass broke the spell; it sent their heads spinning to the window. Bodies were obscured by the restaurant’s sign, but there they all were: Bill, Ben and Stan—minus Beverley. Bill rapped on the glass, pointing inside and giving a wave. Stan held the door open by the sleeve of his jacket, waited for them all to file in before wiping his sleeve on the front of his pants and coming inside. 

_“Ayeee, gang’s all here!”_ Richie cackled and with light speed returned his hand to the top of the table—but not before Eddie saw a glimpse of his red cheeks. 

“ _Beverley_ isn’t,” Ben huffed, looking cross at Richie for not including her. 

“Of course, Haystack. Of course,” Richie countered, spearing a pancake with his fork. They were getting soggy now, Eddie realized with a frown. 

“W-w-what are y-you bu-bu-both doing h-h-here?” Bill appeared at the booth, inspecting their plates. Stanley hovered the furthest away, his eyes never leaving the exit sign. 

“Jus’ havin’ a good old, _American_ breakfast, ‘s’all. Eddie here’s never had pancakes. _Pancakes_ , folks, can you believe it?” Richie elbowed him in the stomach with a mischievous smile. His grin made Eddie believe the last few minutes went deeper than what he thought he knew, the person he had assumed Richie was all this time. Like the pages in a book, Eddie had revealed yet another unique layer to him; hiding underneath all of his jokes and lively episodes was just a boy, reaching out in hopes of something more, the smallest piece of acceptance. _A hand to hold. A smile filled with compassion._ The unfinished words dangled in his mind and Eddie tried to fill in the gaps—until it clicked. 

_(I think..I might just like-)_

“Looks like he _still_ hasn’t,” Stan said and motioned to the full plate. 

“R-really Eh-eh-eddie? They’re so g-g-good.” 

“It’s my mom. Says I’ll get sick.” Eddie said apologetically. 

The others joined Richie in exasperated laughter before sitting across from them. Ben crossed his arms over his large middle and said,

“Well, get on with it then. I’ve got stuff to do.” 

“Yeah, Eddie ole pal,” Richie patted his back, “Join the rest of the world and eat some pancakes.”

Eddie stared at the plate...and it didn’t seem so upsetting anymore. After what they’d been through, what’s some sugar? What was _really_ making Eddie sick were the feelings bottled inside, itching for an escape each and every time Richie caught him staring. 

With a determined smile Eddie carefully cut out a piece and lifted the fork to his mouth; the pancake was spongy and drenched in syrup. 

“I think,” Eddie stole a secret glance at Richie, using his exact words, hoping to express _here_ what he couldn’t say earlier, “I might just like.. _it_. _”_  


_(I think I might just like you.)_

Richie stared back with brown eyes widening but no one else noticed. And ever so slightly did he nod his head, cheeks pink with shock. 

“Y-you okay _R-R-Richie?_ ” Bill snatched Richie’s plate from across the table and ate a few bites of what was left. Everyone was staring at them now. 

“What? Yes _indeedy_ folks,” He straightened his glasses and beamed at Eddie—a genuine smile. 

“ _Eddie Makes History! Takes the Breakfast Food World By Storm!_ It’s a real nail-biter folks,” Richie burst into his manic TV announcer Voice, “and we’ve never seen anything like this before ladies and germs! Was he going to love them? Was he going to throw up? We never knew! _Until this very_ -“

The three across the booth broke into a monotonous chorus of, “ _Beep-beep, Richie,”_ completely silencing his dramatic monologue, and got up to leave. 

Richie fished for the money in his pocket and threw it down on the counter with a clatter of coins. 

“Eds,” he whispered when the others were far ahead of them, “You wanna try and have some  
more pancakes next weekend? Cause..I really like _it_ too.” 

Eddie felt the color return to his face as Richie pinched his cheek and rushed to catch up with Bill. 

**Author's Note:**

> Can it be my own personal headcanon that they have a weekly breakfast date and they think the Losers don’t know but it’s obviously painted on their faces every weekend please and thank you ~


End file.
